


Moonbeams

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [110]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1653398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England, Scotland and Wales have shared their beds with many different people over the centuries.</p><p>(A collection of short, loosely connected fics.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. England and France

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't had any time for writing (or much of anything, really) lately, so thought I'd ease my way back into it with a short fic or two. 
> 
> My first idea for a scene sparked several similar ones, and inspired me to make a collection of them here. They will all involve the Brit bros, platonically sharing sleeping spaces (although not necessarily with people they're in an exclusively platonic relationship with at the time).

**1916, Western Front, France**

  
  
Like hunger, tiredness is simply a lie England had trained his body to believe in his infancy so he could ape the habits of his people.  
  
He does not _need_ to sleep any more than he needs to eat, and yet his muscles still ache, his eyes still throb, and he can barely track a thought from one moment to the next. His hands never stop shaking.  
  
(Whenever he does manage to lay his head down for a spell, he does not dream about his land, or the trench – the shells raining down and the blood and the stench and the _despair_ of it– or even about all of his good, brave boys who will never see their homes again. He dreams of roast beef with all the trimmings, of plum pudding and custard, and wakes with his stomach clenched tight and growling; saliva and bile filling his mouth.)  
  
And yet, he can’t keep a steady hold of his gun this evening. The third time he drops it, he struggles to even find it again. He stoops down, fumbling clumsily across the ground below him, but all he can feel is the coarse wood of duckboards and the ever-present, ubiquitous fucking mud. Tears of frustration well up in his eyes, blurring his already dim vision into irrelevancy.  
  
A hand settles on his back: broad, long fingered and far from gentle.  
  
Scotland’s.  
  
“You should go and get some rest,” his brother says. “It looks like it’s going to be a quiet night for once; you don’t need to be out here.”  
  
England is unable to recall a single quiet night since they were posted to France, but, considering the source, the lie cannot be a kind one. It can only be pitying.  
  
"Yes, I do," England snaps, twisting his body out and away from under his brother's touch. He lurches upright again, but the sudden movement makes his head swim dizzily.  
  
Scotland catches him before he can overbalance.  
  
He stands solid and unwavering afterwards, because he can easily bear England's slight weight. Even so his breath shortens, sounding somewhat laboured.  "You can't win this war on your own, England," he says, fingers clawing deep into the sparse flesh of England's upper arms. "None of us can, no matter how much we might wish it otherwise. We can  spare you for a few hours, especially if you're not able to shoot."  
  
England starts to argue his case, but Scotland pays him no heed. Throughout all their centuries of conflict, regardless of his rising power and the union, England has never been able to overcome his brother on a purely physical level. Even at his peak, Scotland has always been the stronger of the two of them.  
  
So when Scotland takes hold of his hand, England allows himself to be tugged along behind him without further protest. His reserves of stamina have dwindled so much of late that he has none to spare for their usual, petty fraternal squabbles.  
  
Most of the time, he’s shocked that he has sufficient energy left within himself to continue breathing through the day.  
  
Scotland steers him to one of the cubby holes carved roughly into the side of the trench, and then shoves him towards it, taking care to keep him from banging the top of his head against its roof, but not enough to cushion his fall when he slumps down onto his knees within.  
  
“I’ll come fetch you at midnight and not a moment before,” Scotland says, in a gruff, parental tone that England has not heard directed his way since at least the twelfth century. “If I see you step so much as a toe out of here before that, there’ll be hell to pay. All right?”  
  
“All right,” England says meekly, the words little more than a sigh. With a thick musty blanket soft below him, he suddenly realises how insupportable it is to keep moving, to keep talking, to keep doing anything other than burrowing down into it and trying his best to block out the rest of the world for a little while.  
  
Scotland makes a quiet approving noise when England allows himself to collapse onto his back, and then retreats. England listens to his brother’s trudging footsteps until they fade away, leaving him in the closest thing to silence it’s possible to find in the trench: the distant rattle of gunfire and the low murmur of his men’s voices somewhere nearby.  
  
They’re not exactly soothing sounds, but they’re a new sort of normal, and nothing that should disturb England’s enforced peace unduly. Nevertheless, he cannot settle.  
  
The blanket seems to grow thinner the longer he lies upon it, and he slowly becomes aware of every irregularity in the ground beneath it, every loose stone and broken root, and each one seems to be digging into a particularly tender part of his body. He turns one way and then the other, smoothes the blanket down and then ruckles it up, but comfort remains elusive.  
  
Eventually, he resigns himself to enduring the stubborn, jabbing pressure at both the base of his skull and tailbone, and closes his eyes.  
  
In true darkness, however, his mind stirs into energetic life instead slowing towards sleep. His thoughts stray first towards Wales – recently arrived back at the front; whole and unscarred once more, if only in body – and then, more persistently, towards Scotland, who has likely returned to their position at the parapet by now. England wonders if he can man it efficiently on his own, and if –  
  
The makeshift curtain covering the mouth of the cubby hole is yanked back and someone shuffles inside. England squints towards them, but the darkening twilight outside has robbed the details from their face, rendering them nothing more than a featureless silhouette.  
  
He forces back his disappointed groan, because although he had hoped to spend time alone – a precious rarity in the trenches – even if sleep did continue to elude him, he doesn’t want to make the newcomer feel unwelcome. The cubby holes are for the soldiers’ benefit, after all; not his. If anything,  _he_ is the interloper.  
  
The cubby is a narrow fit for two, so England rolls onto his side and then wriggles forward until his nose is almost touching the damp, loamy soil at its far limit.  
  
“Merci,” the shadow says, in an aggravatingly familiar drawl.  
  
England’s tolerance and good will evaporate in an instant.  
  
“You can fuck right off,” he says, glowering at the wall in front of him. A fruitless undertaking, given their relative positions, but it serves to lighten his mood slightly all the same. “Go on; shoo. I’m sure you can find somewhere else to laze around in if you look hard enough.”  
  
”There is nowhere else.” France’s voice does not echo back some of his own irritation, as England had thought it would.  He sounds nothing but resigned. “Believe me, I would go there if there was, but Scotland said that this was the only cubby which still had some free space.”  
  
Notwithstanding his earlier show of concern, England can well believe that Scotland would be spiteful enough to inflict France upon him for no better reason than his own vindictive amusement.  
  
He would not inflict England on France unless he felt he really had no other option, however.  
  
France has looked to be on the verge of collapse for days now; all of the light and life and colour draining away from him until only a grey husk remained. England would have expected him to complain about his rapidly fading looks, just as he had expected him to complain about their deplorable conditions and short rations, but he never did. He keeps his mouth shut and his head down, and just carries on putting one foot in front of the other – day in, day out – like the rest of them. Because it’s their duty. Because there’s nothing else they _can_ do.  
  
It may yet be grudging, but England can’t help but admire him for it, all the same.  
  
England presses as close as he can against the wall, freeing up a little more of the blanket. “You’d better keep your hands to yourself,” he says.  
  
“I think I’ll be able to restrain myself,” France says. “You smell like effluent, _Angleterre_.”  
  
To England’s surprise, the remark does not annoy him as it usually would. Nevertheless, he cannot stop himself from remarking, “So do you.”  
  
“I hope that means that you’re going to hold yourself to the same promise, then,” France says, his voice warming with amusement.  
  
England’s scowl returns. “Don’t push your luck, Frog.”  
  
France chuckles rustily, and then slowly lowers himself, joints creaking, to lie alongside England. Given the close quarters, it’s impossible for them to remain entirely separated from one another, and every time one of them exhales, the sharp points of their shoulder blades brush together. The sensation makes England’s skin crawl.  
  
He does not anticipate being able to relax now, never mind sleep. It wasn’t so long ago, after all, that France would have taken the opportunity presented by a situation like this to slip a knife between his ribs.  
  
Their bosses might have told them that they must become close allies, but such things do not become true simply because humans want them to. They’ve been at one another’s throats for most of their lives, and England doubts he’ll ever be able to truly trust France at his word.  
  
He feels exposed, and, besides, he’s unused to sleeping so close to another person, so he expects that France’s every movement will disturb him; that every sound he makes will be magnified intolerably.  
  
But, instead, there’s something oddly reassuring about the weight of another person at his back and the slight warmth of France’s body seeping into his own.  
  
England cautiously closes his eyes again. He can hear nothing but his own heartbeat and the soft sound of France’s breathing.  
  
Sleep comes quickly.


	2. Northern Ireland and Terror

**25th December, 1965; London, England**  
  
  
  
When the last of the colourful wrapping falls away onto the living room floor, and the Thing lurking within is finally revealed in all its terrible glory, Northern Ireland flinches back from it in automatic revulsion.  
  
“Well,” England says, shuffling forward in his chair and leaning closer to the Thing. Northern Ireland is impressed by his bravery, even though he has no wish to emulate it. “Isn’t that delightful.”  
  
Northern Ireland has been told time and again that he should be thankful for all gifts he receives, no matter how hideous or unwanted they might be, and even more often that ‘if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all’.  
  
He keeps his mouth shut.  
  
“Let’s have a proper look,” Scotland says. He plucks the woollen monstrosity out from the crumpled pile of paper surrounding it, holds it up close to his face, and then squints at it quizzically. “What the fuck do you think it’s supposed to be?”  
  
England’s scowl is as fierce as if it were his own handiwork which had just been insulted. “Your eyesight must be failing in your old age, Scotland. It’s clearly a sheep.”  
  
“Sheep don’t have pointed teeth, England,” Scotland says.  
  
“I only glanced at it briefly.” England’s cheeks begin to pink. “I suppose it might have been a lion.”  
  
“That wouldn’t explain why it’s purple. Or why it has horns.”  
  
“It could be a dragon.”  
  
“When was the last time you saw a purple dragon?” Scotland asks, quirking his eyebrows. “And they generally have tails.”  
  
“A Manx dragon, then,” England growls. “For heaven’s sake, can’t you just –“  
  
“Whatever it is,” Wales cuts in smoothly, his tone bright and cheerful, “I think we can all agree that it was very nice of New Zealand to make it for you. Right, North?”  
  
Northern Ireland will doubtless tell New Zealand exactly that in the thank you note he’ll be cajoled into writing on Boxing Day morning, but truthfully and secretly, he’s not sure that he agrees in the slightest.  
  
Whether it’s a sheep, lion, dragon, or simply a fantastical creature born from some dark corner of New Zealand’s imagination that he really should have left well alone, the soft toy is _hideous_.  
  
As Scotland rightly pointed out, it _does_ have fangs; yellowing ones bared in an angry-looking snarl. Its plump, purple body bulges unnaturally in random spots here and there, which makes it look as though it’s suffering from a bad case of boils, and one of its horns is sprouting out of the middle of what passes for its face.  
  
The worst thing about it are its eyes, which are lopsided, protruding, and seem to glitter with an unnerving sort of intelligence that something made solely from wool and buttons should not be able to possess.  
  
He tells Wales, “Yes,” regardless, because it’s easier than arguing, and, besides, he just wants to move on from the subject of the Thing entirely and forget about it as soon as he can.  
  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
  
After England has read Northern Ireland the next chapter of _The Hobbit_ , and tucked his blankets suffocatingly tight around his neck, he gives him a beatific smile.  
  
“Wasn’t Father Christmas kind to you this year, North?” he says.  
  
If the contents of his stocking were an example of Father Christmas’ benevolence, Northern Ireland would hate to see what he’d get gifted if he ever ended up on the naughty list. He’d only requested one item in the letter he'd sent to the North Pole (otherwise known as England's desk drawer) – one he had thought would be suitably educational to pass muster with his brothers, and not greedy at all – and still been punished with nothing but books, socks, and frightening knitting in the end, anyway.  
  
His lack of an answer doesn’t seem to dishearten England. In fact, his expression grows even more indulgent. “I noticed you forgot something downstairs when you came up to brush your teeth. But don’t worry,” he continues, “ _I_ remembered to bring it up for you.”  
  
He reaches into the voluminous pocket of his dressing gown, and for one wonderful, breathless moment, Northern Ireland thinks he might actually be about to get the Etch A Sketch he’d asked for, after all. That his brothers might just have been _pretending_ to have forgotten all about it to heighten his anticipation.  
  
To his disappointment and horror, however, England simply produces the Thing, which Northern Ireland had hoped he’d hidden well enough that it could essentially be considered lost.  
  
“It was stuffed behind one of the bookcases in the library,” England says. “I have no idea how it could have got there.”  
  
With a great deal of patience. It had been difficult to get the angle right to make the throw, and the Thing had spent a large portion of the afternoon richocheting off the light fittings and windows until Northern Ireland finally perfected his aim.  
  
“There you go,” England says, gently placing the Thing on Northern Ireland’s pillow.  
  
Northern Ireland eyes it warily. It seems to eye him right back. “Can you put it on top of my chest of drawers, instead?” he asks.  
  
The chest of drawers marks the farthest point of Northern Ireland’s small room from his bed. It would probably be at a safe distance there. And as soon as England leaves, Northern Ireland can drape something over its misshapen head so it can’t stare at him throughout the night.  
  
“Why?”.  
  
Northern Ireland can’t tell him he’s scared of the Thing. England would doubtless call him silly for worrying about such things before launching into a lecture about his lack of gratitude for New Zealand’s hard work.  
  
“I think I’m too old to sleep with toys now,” he says.  
  
England looks both thoughtful and understanding, and Northern Ireland would be quite proud of his subterfuge if his brother didn’t then immediately pick up his teddy bear.  
  
“I suppose you’ll want Mr Bear to move to your chest of drawers, too?” England says.  
  
“No,” Northern Ireland barks out, quick and desperate.  
  
Mr Bear had been a present from Portugal, and his stalwart bedtime companion for decades; a soft and fuzzy comfort after countless nightmares.  
  
Northern Ireland doesn’t think he would be able to rest without him.  
  
England’s eyebrows knot in confusion. “I’ll leave them be, then,” he says.  
  
He presses a dry kiss to Northern Ireland’s forehead, says his good nights, and then the second he closes the bedroom door behind him, Northern Ireland grabs hold of the horrible, scratchy Thing with the very tips of his fingers and hurls it under his bed.  
  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  
Northern Ireland wakes in the depths of the night, stretches, and then turns onto his side. Black button eyes glare at him across the pillow, glittering malevolently.  
  
Northern Ireland screams. He screams long and hard, and within moments, he can hear unsteady footsteps pounding along the hallway outside, racing towards his room.  
  
Wales bursts through the door, and immediately flicks on the overhead light. “What’s happened?” he says, sounding breathless and terrified. His round cheeks are crimson, his hair a rat’s nest of tangled curls, and there’s sweat beading on his brow. “Are you okay?”  
  
“It can fucking move!” Northern Ireland wails.  
  
“Language, North,” Wales chides distractedly as he perches on the end of Northern Ireland’s bed. “Now,” his voice gentles, “what is it you think you’ve seen? If it had wings, it –“  
  
“ _That_.” Northern Ireland points at the Thing, which had been launched halfway across the floor when he lurched up into a sitting position in his desperate attempt to get as far away from it as possible. “It must have climbed out from under my bed!”  
  
Northern Ireland thinks that should serve as a clear warning not to touch the Thing, for fear of what _else_ it might be able to do, but Wales bends forwards and grabs hold of it , nevertheless.  
  
He studies it closely and then pronounces that: “It’s just a toy.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Northern Ireland asks, shuffling a little closer towards his brother’s warm, reassuring bulk.  
  
Wales’ fingers flutter in a complicated dance over the Thing’s head. He nods in satisfaction. “Quite sure. You must have been imagining things. Sometimes, when a dream’s particularly vivid, it might –“  
  
“I didn’t imagine it, Wales,” Northern Ireland protests. “I put it under my bed, but then when I woke up, it was right next to me on the pillow!”  
  
“Oh.” Wales’ lips twist into a sympathetic grimace. “I think I see what must have happened. England was saying earlier that you were adamant that this had to stay in bed with you. He must have come in to check on you, seen it wasn’t where it supposed to be, and then gone looking for it so he could put it back again.”  
  
Northern Ireland takes several long, deep breaths, hesitating as he wonders how much he can tell Wales.  
  
Eventually, he decides that he doesn’t much care if Wales thinks he’s being ridiculous. No doubt he’s had plenty of occasions to do so in the past, but, unlike England, he’s never once told him so.  
  
He definitely wouldn’t laugh.  
  
“I didn’t want it near me at all,” Northern Ireland says. “I tried to hide it in the library before, but England just found it again then, as well.” He pauses again, gathering his courage, and then adds in a sudden rush, “I think it’s scary.”  
  
“Really?” Wales says, eyebrows arching in obvious surprise. “I think it’s quite endearingly ugly. New Zealand obviously knitted it with love, if nothing else.”  
  
He might well have done, but he clearly then stuffed it full of evil afterwards.  
  
“I know, but… But I still don’t like it,” Northern Ireland admits in an undertone, stuffed equally full of guilt.  
  
He’s aware that New Zealand must work very hard to knit them their Christmas presents every year, and normally he can appreciate that even though the jumpers that result are practically unwearable.  
  
He still can’t bring himself to appreciate the Thing.  
  
Wales looks at him for a quiet moment, sidelong and considering. “And I do,” he says eventually. “So much so, in fact, that I don’t think I want to give it back to you. If England asks you where it is in the morning, you can tell him that I couldn’t resist taking it with me. Okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Northern Ireland agrees, the tight, anxious feeling in his chest finally receding. “Thank you, Wales.”  
  
“No, _thank you_ for giving me your toy,” Wales says solemnly. “It was very generous of you.”  
  
They share a brief grin at that before Wales makes one of his sporadic, abortive sallies towards giving Northern Ireland a hug. He leans forward, arms opening wide, but at the very last moment he drops one hand and just squeezes Northern Ireland’s shoulder as he usually does.  
  
“Do you think you’ll be able to get back to sleep now?” he asks as he gets to his feet.  
  
Northern Ireland honestly believes the nod he gives his brother, but after Wales has turned off the light again and left, he doesn’t feel as relieved as he thought he would.  
  
He might be safe from whatever malicious tricks the Thing’s cotton wool mind could have dreamt up, but in the cool, silent darkness, he begins to worry that Wales might not be.


	3. Scotland and France, On the Eve of Their Implosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a epilogue, of sorts, to [How To Build](http://archiveofourown.org/works/627345).

**Circa 1590; Kingdom of France**  
  
  
  
Scotland always feels raw after they’ve fucked, like some vital part of him has been flayed away, exposing everything within himself that he usually keeps secret and hidden.  
  
It used to terrify him, as there’s little he guards as zealously as the privacy of his inner self, but the passage of time and its paradoxical disappointments have taught him that he has nothing to fear from France in that regard.  
  
As soon as they have both found completion in their coupling, France moves away from him. Turns his back.  
  
Tonight is no exception.  
  
Whilst the added warmth of France’s body slowly fades from his skin, Scotland stares up at the bed’s dark canopy, unseeing. Silent and still despite the violence of his thoughts: his own desires engaged in their centuries’ old battle with his knowledge of France’s.  
  
He wants to curl an arm around France’s waist and pull him close again. Perhaps even press a kiss to his temple, his jaw, the curve of his cheek. Every inch of exposed skin.  
  
The yearning is stronger than ever, because Scotland has yet to shake that vertiginous sensation that had been birthed during France’s last visit to his home. The ground they have both stood upon, side by side, for the past three hundred years feels to be crumbling beneath Scotland’s feet, and he wants nothing more than to cling to France to prevent himself from falling along with it.  
  
But this particular battle has only ever had one victor, no matter how many times it has been fought.  
  
France hates to be held; calls it smothering. He claims to find many things smothering, though Scotland has long suspected that they all stem from the same root: that emotion of Scotland’s that has never been given voice between them.  
  
Because he cannot have what he wants, Scotland allows himself the indulgence of quenching another need. One that France has never protested against.  
  
He turns, too, onto his side and then lets his eyes drink their fill.  
  
Shadows conceal most of the details of France’s body – huddling beneath the smooth curve of his shoulder blades and pooling in the small of his back – but his long, lean outline is lovely in its own way.  
  
His hair is splayed in disarray across his pillow, baring the slim column of his neck, and it looks almost black in contrast to the pale fabric, except those few strands which catch the flickering candlelight and throw it back in brilliant gold.  
  
The very first time he had seen France – dancing and laughing and so beautiful that Scotland had indeed felt like he had been physically struck upon seeing him – Scotland had wondered, dazedly, if the other kingdom’s hair would feel hot if he were to put a hand to it, given how brightly it shone.  
  
Though Scotland’s curiosity had long been satisfied on that score, his fingers still ache with that same old urge to touch France’s hair, perhaps even comb out its tangles. But France has often told him he is too rough to attempt such a thing, so Scotland keeps his hands to himself and simply admires it.  
  
With his attention thus caught and nothing to mark the passage of time but the culmination of France’s shallow breaths, it takes Scotland longer than it maybe should to realise that something is wrong.  
  
On any other night, France would either have demanded to be taken again by now, if his spirit had risen once more upon resting, or else he would have ordered Scotland out of the bed so he can find his own.  
  
“Shall I leave, France?” Scotland asks; tentative with anxiety, not hope.  
  
He does not expect an invitation to stay, but France’s silence is troubling. Scotland wonders if his presence has been forgotten entirely. That would be worse than any dismissal.  
  
After a long, dreadful pause that seems to confirm Scotland’s fears, France asks, “Do you want to?” His voice creaks dryly.  
  
‘No,’ Scotland wants to say. ‘No, of course not.’ And, ‘I never do.’  
  
The words have claws, though, and stay lodged at the back of his throat. He can’t help but think that the question is some kind of test, but as he does not know what France wants to hear, he cannot answer it.  
  
France has been adamant for years that it was best that they sleep apart, because Scotland so seldom rested easily at night, but, then again, would France have given him a choice if he was not prepared to endure that outcome? Perhaps –  
  
France’s low snarl suggests that his patience has run out. If there was a correct reply, Scotland had been too slow in giving it to make any odds now.  
  
“Do whatever you like. Stay, go; they’re both the same to me,” France says, each word hard and pointed like the head of an arrow. “I do not care, _Écosse_.”  
  
The way France draws out the sibilance at the end of that name – not his, not _theirs_ ; the one France hasn’t used for, god…for an age – sounds like a snake’s hiss. It sounds _venomous_.  
  
The world entire seems to shift beneath Scotland, so violently that he thinks there’s little chance of being able to keep his footing now. He feels sick, his heart pounds, and a cold sweat breaks out on his brow.  
  
But he stays besides France, nevertheless. Because France had given him the blessing to do so. Because he does not know how long it might be before he's offered such an honour again.  
  
He does not sleep, though. He dreads finding out what the morrow may bring too much for that. 


	4. Wales and Romano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sort of coda to [this chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/630851/chapters/3767149) of 'Law of Attraction'.

**The early hours of:**  
  
 **1st January, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**

  
  
Although Scotland’s spare bed has always looked like a perfectly normal double before, upon a more thorough examination, it’s clearly far too narrow to accommodate two people in anything approaching the requisite comfort required for a decent night’s sleep.  
  
Wales therefore concludes that, “I should probably just sleep on the floor.”  
  
Romano gives him a look that is one part, ‘You’re a fucking idiot’ to nine parts, ‘I can’t believe I always have to do the thinking for the both of us’. He very rarely looks at Wales in any other way whenever Wales is foolish enough to try and initiate conversation with him.  
  
“Would your family expect you to be sleeping with someone you’ve supposedly been dating for nearly a year?” he asks.  
  
Wales’ family seem to be under the impression that he possesses the sexual impulses of a particularly gregarious bonobo. He nods.  
  
“Well, then we should share the bed,” Romano says.  
  
“It’s not like they’ll ever find out if we don’t,” Wales argues. “We’re all very respectful of each others’ personal spaces. We don’t just go barging into bedrooms without first knocking and waiting for long enough that someone could get dressed if they need to, you know.”  
  
“And what about France?”  
  
“France wouldn’t d–“  
  
Wales cuts himself off mid-word, because, on second thought, he’s not entirely convinced that France _wouldn’t_. Although he’s known the other nation for something approaching half his life, he’s still not really certain where his boundaries lie. He definitely has them, but sometimes they turn out to be so far distant from where Wales would prefer them to be that they’re likely only visible by telescope.  
  
As France’s proprietary interest in Wales and Romano’s supposed relationship has yet to decline towards more comfortable levels, it probably would be best to err on the side of caution.  
  
“We’ll share the bed,” Wales says.  
  
Even with that weighty decision made, Romano appears just as reluctant to make the first move towards the bed as Wales is. They both stare at it in silence for a while longer before Romano breaks their impasse with a sudden, rough growl of frustration, and then informs Wales, “I sleep naked.”  
  
“I promise I’ll keep my eyes to myself,” Wales reassures him, even though he does think it’s a little unreasonable for Romano not to consider modifying that particular habit for one night, given the circumstances. “Besides, the lights will be off the whole time.”  
  
Romano growls again, gestures significantly towards the bedroom door, and then subjects Wales to a glare that is 100% pure and unadulterated, ‘You’re a fucking idiot’.  
  
“Oh,” Wales says, flushing once the meaning of the gesture finally sinks in. “Right. I’ll just…” He hurries forward and grabs his pyjamas from his open bag. “I’ll leave you to it and go and get changed myself, I suppose.”

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
Once Wales has retreated to the bathroom, however, and the sense of embarrassment-fuelled urgency that had sent him fleeing from Romano has faded, he feels disinclined to do anything of the sort.  
  
He instead finds himself contemplating Scotland’s bath, giving serious consideration to its suitability as a more desirable place to rest his head for the night. He’s slept in it before on a couple of occasions in the past when he’d been too pissed to remember how to navigate his way back to the spare bedroom after brushing his teeth.  
  
The only thing that stops him from grabbing a few of Scotland’s larger towels and jumping right in is the knowledge that no-one who had attended his brother’s Hogmanay celebrations could ever believe he’d even taken a passing glance at that level of drunk at any point.  
  
He was, in fact, almost stone cold sober, as he’d suspected going in that it would require at least one clear head for there to be any hope of peace prevailing whilst Romano and Scotland coexisted in the same room, and had thus not allowed himself more than the odd fortifying swig of whisky all night.  
  
(As it turned out, it probably would have been better if the clear head had been Scotland, who had eventually had to be hauled out to the garage to cool off by England and Northern Ireland after Romano said something mildly disparaging about his living room décor.)  
  
Resigned, he begins, very slowly, to undress.  
  
Some time later, as he’s carefully folding his cardigan, Wales catches sight of himself in the mirror above the sink. His skin is chalky pale and his eyes have a definite haunted cast to them. He looks, quite frankly, terrified.  
  
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Wales asks his reflection glumly.  
  
His reflection, unsurprisingly, has no fresh insights to shed upon the matter, but then Wales can answer his own question well enough without outside input already, anyway.  
  
As he is apparently:  
  
1)    otherwise undateable,  
2)    incapable of putting his own happiness above that of certain other people, and  
3)    perversely determined to prove Scotland wrong,  
  
he is thus doomed to continue playing his part in this particular ridiculous farce until such time as the faintest chance of a reasonable alternative presents itself.  
  
And, until that blessed day, he will just have to muddle through as best he can.

 

* * *

  
  
When Wales eventually returns to the bedroom, Romano is lying as close to the right hand edge of the bed as he can with the duvet pulled up high and snug around the bottom of his chin, but, disappointingly, clearly still wide awake.  
  
He watches Wales warily as he crosses the floor, then even more warily when he reaches for the duvet himself. Wales very deliberately averts his eyes, and keeps his head turned until he’s settled himself at the far left of the bed.  
  
Romano immediately turns off the lamp on the table beside him, and then asks, “You don’t move around in your sleep a lot, do you? I can’t fucking stand that.”  
  
Seeing as though they’ve apparently committed themselves to this absurd course of action come what may, Wales thinks it’s a little late to be worrying about such considerations. Nevertheless, he replies, “No. I do snore, though.”  
  
“Okay,” Romano says, in such an offhand, unconcerned manner that Wales feels duty-bound to add, “Very loudly. _Yr Alban_ and _Lloegr_ both say that it sounds like an aeroplane taking off.”  
  
A soft rustle of fabric suggests Romano is shrugging. “So does Veneziano. I’m used to it.”  
  
Wales almost remarks that he must share a bed with his brother far more often than Wales ever does any of his – who are still bothered enough by the noise to resort to trying to smother him with a pillow more often than not when they’re forced to overnight together – but ultimately decides that it’s a conversational door he has no wish to open. Many other nations, as France has doggedly reminded him over the centuries, have very different attitudes to family than Wales has himself, and it’s neither Wales’ place to judge, nor any of his business, if Romano happens to be amongst their number.  
  
Instead, he busies himself with wrapping the top of the duvet around his neck as tightly as Romano has his own in an effort to trap as much of his body heat close to his skin as possible – he hopes Romano won’t regret his decision to go with out nightwear, but given the gelid nip of the frugally unheated air, he has serious doubts on that score – and then closes his eyes.  
  
A moment later, the niggling feeling that he’s been unforgivably impolite compels Wales to say, “Well, good night, then.”  
  
After a short pause, and sounding faintly puzzled, Romano replies, “Good night, _Galles_.”

 

* * *

 

By rights, the quiet sounds Romano’s making – soft, even breaths, and the odd creak of springs as he shifts his weight – shouldn’t disturb Wales, but he finds them impossible to sleep through all the same.  
  
They’re a constant reminder that there’s another presence in the bed, and that’s led Wales to realise that, despite what he’d believed before, there are worse things than being alone in one.  
  
The mattress actually feels far colder when there’s warmth at the other side of it, but it’s completely beyond his reach.

 

 

 


	5. France and Scotland, the Second Time Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I'm enjoying writing the incredibly slow-build Scotland/France of Deva Victrix, I had a sudden hankering to write something where the hard work's already been done...

* * *

 

 **2011; Edinburgh, Scotland**  
  
  
Sharing a bed with Scotland is a skill, and one France never had the patience to learn when he was younger.  
  
In the first flush of infatuation, when their stolen moments of intimacy were few and far between, sleep was such an unwelcome intrusion on their time together that France fought against it just as staunchly as Scotland ever did.  
  
And as the years passed and the bloom faded from that rose, so too did France's tolerance for broken nights as Scotland thrashed and whimpered his way through dreams that he insisted, despite his thundering heart and wide, fear-filled eyes, disturbed his mind so little that he could not recall a single detail of them upon awakening.  
  
He had found those evasions more tiresome than even the most violent of Scotland's night terrors, because they seemed to him then to be just another example of Scotland's unwillingness to allow him knowledge of anything beyond his body. It was easier, on both his own body and his heart, that they slept apart, and so they had retired to separate beds for the two centuries their poor excuse for a relationship had continued to limp along before France finally found the courage and resolve to grind down his heel and crush what little life remained in it.  
  
Despite Scotland's ground rules for this new arrangement of theirs, this particular compromise – which France had always thought practical, if not ideal – was one he was seemingly unable to accept.  
  
France had tentatively suggested it after three mornings in a row of being wrenched from his own dreams by a swift knee to the small of his back, and though Scotland had very quickly told him, 'Aye, okay, if that's what you want,' the experience and understanding he had lacked as a youth – and even, he was ashamed to admit, the previous year – had taught France to listen to his tone of voice at such times and not what he was actually saying.  
  
Accordingly, he had resigned himself to either enduring the inevitable bruises, or else staying on alert and simply catnapping until Scotland's equally inevitable dawn rising made the bed safe to spread out in, starfish-like, as he preferred.  
  
Over the months that followed, however, he began to perceive a pattern in Scotland's bedtime routine; one that was uniform enough that he could exploit it to both of their advantages.  
  
Tonight, as every night they've shared since then, his preparations begin in the instant that the arm tucked around his waist slackens its grip.  
  
He catches Scotland's hand before it drops away from its open-palmed splay across his stomach, and weaves their fingers together. In response, Scotland makes a low, contented noise that reverberates along the portion of France's back which is moulded tight against Scotland's chest.  
  
(It reminds France of Duchesse's purring; an observation he has never divulged to Scotland for fear it would then make him too self-conscious about it to ever continue.)  
  
After the rumbling stops, no matter how scratchy with tiredness his voice is, or how deep his exhaustion has set in, he will kiss France and say, 'I love you', or ' _Je t'aime_ ' or ' _Tha gaol agam ort_ '. There is no rhyme or reason behind his choice, at least none that France has been able to discern; only that it appears he needs the sentiment to be the very last one that passes both of their lips before he can bring himself to relax.  
  
Tonight, he says, "I love you," his mouth still pressed so closely to the back of France's neck that the words are barely intelligible.  
  
"I love you, too," France says, squeezing his hand gently.  
  
For a moment, Scotland's smile lingers against his skin, but its warmth gradually dims as Scotland's head falls against his pillow.  
  
France's muscles grow taut in anticipation as he listens to the slowing cadence of Scotland's breathing, because timing, now, is critical. If he moves too soon, then he will likely startle Scotland into full wakefulness, and they will have to repeat the entire cycle before he can settle back down again. If he leaves it too long, then the whole exercise is rendered moot, as Scotland – who runs purely on fumes most days – can drop into a deep enough sleep to dream seemingly within seconds of closing his eyes.  
  
When he hears the telltale catch in Scotland's throat, he delicately pulls away from Scotland and shuffles inch by cautious inch across the bed until he reaches its far side. He keeps hold of Scotland's hand for a beat or two longer, and then eases it away from him, too.  
  
Scotland's fingers twitch a little, perhaps in protest, but eventually he draws his arm back and tucks his freed hand beneath his cheek alongside its twin.  
  
Even though the mattress beneath him and the duvet above him are icy cold this far removed from the natural furnace of Scotland's body, France's own breathing calms.  
  
Sleep will come quickly, just so long as tonight, like all those other nights, he doesn't let himself wonder if things could ever have been easier between Scotland and himself the first time around if he'd learnt this simple bit of patience centuries ago.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For hitsu, who has asked in the past about how France manages to share a bed with Scotland nowadays.
> 
> Somehow, it ended up containing a whole host of France's pre-LiaV Scotland-feelings that were a) supposed to go in another planned fic and b) completely changed the mood I'd originally thought this particular installment would have...

**Author's Note:**

> I have no particular end point in mind for this collection, and will add more to it as ideas strike me. 
> 
> The additions I have planned thus far include:  
> \- Scotland, England and Wales, shortly after their mother disappeared  
> \- Gwynedd and Pictland  
> \- Wales and Northern Ireland when North was very small  
> \- Scotland and France, 1295  
> \- Scotland and Jersey, 18th century  
> \- Scotland and Wales, present day  
> \- England and Wales, WWI
> 
> And if anyone has requests for scenes with this theme involving any iterations of my Brit bros (AU versions like those from DV etc. included), please let me know, and I will endeavour to include them!


End file.
